


if you're a stranger to your soul

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Dancing, Flirting, Gay Bar, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: The police of York are wholly occupied with petty and unexciting offenses; Richard Ellis is held up at his parents' place; Chris Webster finds what he's been looking for.In a vacant warehouse on an unassuming street, Thomas Barrow has some dances, makes some friends, and learns that there's more to life than loneliness.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Original Male Character(s), Thomas Barrow & Richard Ellis, Thomas Barrow/Chris Webster
Comments: 37
Kudos: 134





	if you're a stranger to your soul

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: the one with all the gay york ocs

> so if you’re out there in the cold  
i’ll cover you in moonlight  
if you’re a stranger to your soul  
i’ll bring you to your birthright  
i want the storm inside you awoken now  
i want your warm bright eyes  
to come back to me  
and hold on to me  
you know that i won't lie

— [never look away by vienna teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0KmI0b1oAs)

* * *

"That bloke you were waiting for, what's he like?"

They've been dancing for what feels like ages, and this is the first time it's come up.

"Only met him a few days ago," replies Thomas. He has to nearly shout to be heard over the music, and he's got a worry in the back of his mind that it's conspicuous, this — not so much the conversation as it is the fact that he's enjoying himself, and there are plenty of people here to see it.

Plenty of people who are enjoying themselves, too, and most with far less caution than Thomas is taking, because he can't quite feel like he's rid of it, yet, that sense that he ought to be checking over his shoulder.

"Well, that's not what I asked, is it, Barrow," and before he can respond Webster swings them out again. He's not quite ready for it, even with a cue, and though he ought've had enough room he still steps on someone else's foot.

That someone only grins at him, cuts him off before he can even open his mouth to apologise.

"Oh, Webster'll have you following properly in no time, if he has his way — "

"You mind your mouth, Chapman — "

But they're laughing, both of them, like they haven't got a care in the world, and he can't help but laugh, too. Chapman's partner steers him away, looking like he's just been put in on a secret, and now Thomas is wondering what sort of history there is, there, if this is Chris's bent, just picking fellows up and… what, teaching them how to dance with other men? 

He's jealous; he _knows_ he's jealous, and they've only just met tonight, so there's no reason for him to be so bloody smitten, but he can't help it. Seems he's been out of the game so long he's forgotten how to play.

Chris comes back around, then, his arm firmly on his waist again. It's overwhelming, all this; Thomas is hardly used to being in this room yet, let alone dancing in it. When he puts his hand back on Chris's shoulder he feels like he's in a dream.

"Well?"

"I don't know a thing about him, to be honest," he says, "that's what tonight was for."

"Oh, you're green, you are –"

"Sorry?"

"I'm asking if he's like us, love, want to know if I've got competition," he replies, and picks up the pace a bit with the music, transitions them into some sort of modified Charleston — does it count as a Charleston, when you're holding hands and only a foot away from your partner?

Thomas steps on Chris's foot, this time, because he expected neither the comment nor the change in speed nor the _pet name_. It's got him off balance. Still, he doesn't have to think hard about his answer: Mr. Ellis is charming, handsome, and _normal_, despite what he'd hoped for in the back of his mind. And even if he weren't, well, punctuality counts for something. "Can't say you do, no."

"Come home with me, then, why don't you?"

Well.

There's no way he isn't blushing, and he knows he must be gaping like a fucking fish, but this was the last thing he expected. He looks away, dazed, trips over his own feet, then realises the implication and wants to melt into the floor.

Chris catches him by way of an embrace, and they just sort of sway, for a moment.

He laughs, because he can't help himself.

"Why, Mr. Webster, don't you move fast," Thomas says, once he's got his breath back and his heart isn't pounding so much in his ears. But despite his words, he knows damn well how he's going to reply. It's not like he has much to lose, here — there's no telling when he'll have another night off, and he can always get a late train back to Downton.

He can tell Ellis he'd come across an old school friend, or a thought-lost pal from the war, or something. No harm, no foul.

"Haven't got a habit of it, Mr. Barrow, you're a special occasion."

Can't argue with that, even if it's just a line.

No one's ever been interested enough to use a line on him before now, after all.

"Sure, I will."

And then, because this night is just surprise after surprise after surprise, Webster pulls away just to come back in and kiss him — they keep their mouths closed, and it's gentle, tentative and soft, but it's exactly what he's been yearning for for years.

Someone behind them whistles, and though Thomas parts from him after that, embarrassed, he's hardly displeased.

"Surely you mean to let other folks have a turn, Christopher?" calls the someone.

They just look at each other, and Thomas shrugs, _why not_, because they both know how this'll go when it's time to leave — "just give 'im back to me at the end of the night, Andrews."

Andrews whistles, and then Thomas is in his arms, still reeling.

"Nice to have someone new around here," he says. His style is both a bit faster and smoother than Chris's was, Foxtrot like; he doesn't seem like he's about to let them part to go for a Charleston, either. Thomas is willing to bet that he learned all this in an actual ballroom, or at least a more respectable dance hall. Thomas stumbles again as he adjusts. "Especially for him, the man's rather _independent,_ though he can clock a boy a mile off — I'm Clarence, by the by, Clarence Andrews."

The accent suits a dance hall more than a ballroom, but not by much. It's almost like he's trying to talk down — after years in service, Thomas can pick up on that sort of thing, but ordinarily folks try to make themselves come off as higher than they are, not lower.

"Thomas Barrow."

"Pleasure."

They go for a good many measures without speaking, just sort of feeling each other out — at one point Clarence dips him, but he'd felt the grip change this time and prepared for it, so he actually comes back up stable. It's thrilling, this, getting his footing. Not that Webster wasn't a good lead, he was, took it slower than Clarence is taking him now, too, but when you're staring at someone's lips you can't very well think about your feet.

"How long have you been together?"

Er — "'bout an hour?"

"Is that so? You're both getting on quite well, then."

"Are we?" asks Thomas, because he's not sure if they're actually getting on or if it's just a passing fancy. The butterflies in his chest tell him it's probably some of both — if he were only in this for a shag he wouldn't be so self conscious.

"Not often around other men of our sort, are you, Thomas?"

"Is it obvious?"

This is a stupid, stupid question. 

He just looks at him, eyebrows raised as if to say, _you did loudly announce it yourself as soon as you got in here_, and heat rises in Thomas's cheeks.

What Clarence actually says is, "still in shock, hm?"

He shrugs, nods, can't say anything, which is an answer on its own.

"You'll love it, Thomas, once you're accustomed; everyone does."

Clarence saves him from falling over his own feet and makes it look graceful at the same time, which is bloody impressive.

He's starting to think ballroom.

"Love it already, Clarence," because apparently they're on a first name basis. 

And he does, but whether or not he'll ever be _accustomed_ to this is worth wondering over.

They keep at it without speaking until the song ends, smiling all the while, and Thomas supposes every man here has got good reasons for putting on a different cap, so to speak. Not his place to ask for details before they're volunteered.

But there is one question he's allowed, though they're interrupted before he can even say it.

"Mind if I get the next one?"

Beat him to it.

They whip around.

"Edgar, darling, where have you been all night," cries Clarence, grinning ear to ear; he lets go of Thomas, grabs the man by the elbow and tugs. 

And then they're kissing.

He shouldn't be so surprised as he is, given all he's witnessed tonight already, but they're _right there in front of him and this is not just a peck on the lips — _

"You're scaring him, boys," and that's Webster again, his arm suddenly slung across Thomas's shoulders. The touch is unfamiliar — unassuming, easy, but unlike anything he's really had before, and God, is this all staggering.

The kissing stops, and when they're back to face them Clarence has his arm around Edgar's waist.

"How's about it, then," says Edgar, looking back and forth between the three of them, casual.

No one says anything, and maybe there's some sort of queer etiquette at play he hasn't picked up on yet, but he's not sure what the silence is for, when there's clearly already an established relationship here — 

"He means you," whispers Webster into his ear, and he parts from him, makes a gesture that Thomas can't quite see out of the corner of his eye.

"What, me?"

"Can have this one anytime I like," Edgar says, elbowing Clarence in the waist, "but it's not every day someone else walks in, is it? Don't mind, Webster?"

But Edgar's already got his hand on his upper arm, looking like he's waiting for something other than Chris's permission (he'll have to think on how he feels about _that_), and they're all staring at him — 

Well, Thomas may be the most daft he's ever been, tonight, but _this_ he can do, this is something he's actually good at, last he tried it, so he puts his hand in the middle of Edgar's shoulders and they're back to the center.

Edgar winks.

"Like leading, d'you? Thought you might want a break from making a fool of yourself — speakin', course, as a man who's made plenty a fool of himself, back in the day."

The song now is just slow enough that they can actually talk.

"Can't say I like it especially, now there's another option," says Thomas, guiding them around another pair. He feels less like a child in this position, but it's still all rather like his brain's been switched off. "More what I'm used to, that's all."

"Not with a bloke, though."

"No, not with a bloke."

"First time for everything," Edgar says, sing-song, and Thomas gives him a twirl, just because he can; catches him smoothly. Thank God he hasn't forgotten how to dance — it's been a while, he's wondered all evening if maybe he's just generally incompetent with this sort of thing nowadays.

But no, just a slow learner. Tough to teach an old dog new tricks, maybe. Besides, the last person he danced with before this evening was Daisy.

And this is very, very different to dancing with Daisy.

"That's what Webster said."

"Knows what he's on about, that one."

"Just met him this evening." The more he has to say it the more he starts to doubt himself, wonder if he's really making the best choices, but everyone is so _wonderful_ that he's feeling like he is. People like him, just men trying to get by, he's got nothing to prove and no one's got any dirt on him, either, aside from his being here. A fresh start, though he'll be back at work tomorrow.

If he still has a job, after his outburst.

"What, and he brought you _here_? Blimey, he can figure 'em out, then — "

He's starting to wonder what Chris Webster's reputation actually is with these people.

"Don't suppose I was very prudent, to be honest." 

He'd been blatantly staring, actually, right up until he thought he'd been noticed, and then his focus was only on the bar counter.

"Took months, me and Clarence, we met at the bloody post office." 

And the music picks up, then, but they're in step now, don't need to concentrate as much. Edgar has clearly had plenty of practice.

_What has he been missing out on, all this time?_

"Yeah?" It's nice just to chat, just to talk openly, like they're regular lads with regular love lives.

"Thought he'd made eyes at me, y'know, but if I went around thinking every fella was makin' eyes at me I'd be locked up by now, so just made an effort to be a bit more consistent in my correspondence, like. Spent all me damn pay on stamps. Turns out he'd got the same idea, and we just kept on like that for ages and ages 'til he followed me out one day."

"A love story if there ever was one," Thomas says, and it's teasing, but he means it.

"Been a couple of years and I still can't believe it meself." Edgar is beaming, giddy, and Thomas isn't even envious, just _glad_ for him, glad that he's happy and in love, because this is proof right here that it's possible after all. "Tough at times, course, is for all of us, got to be right careful, but we're happy together, that's what matters."

"Where's he from, can I ask?"

"Ha, I always tell him folks'll want to know, sounds off, don't he — around here, so am I in fact, but he's upper middle class, he is, went to Cambridge, does stocks for a living and everything."

Got it in one. 

They chat for the rest of the dance. Seems like he's delighted to gush about his relationship to someone who doesn't already have the details — they live together, think of themselves as married, Edgar takes care of the garden and the handiwork and never actually sleeps in the attic like previous men to hold the job would have — and Thomas doesn't mind listening, because to him it all sounds like a fairy tale. 

"What'd you do before?"

"Oh, I – er, same thing, actually, erm, under gardener at Heslington Place til '25, and before that one of 'em at Skelton Park. Got me start as one of the grounds boys at Downton, the big house, if y'know it – "

Doesn't he ever.

" – so it's been all downhill, far as me mum's concerned, but I'm happy, I am, and what she'll never know's not about to hurt her, is it, but, er, yeah, been in gardening since I were fourteen."

"At Downton?"

"Yeah, just as the war started – aw, don't look that way, 'm not that young – "

"Oh, wouldn't dream of thinking you were," interrupts Thomas, sarcastic — he doesn't even have a decade on him, but it's fun to make fun. Without thinking of it, he rubs his hand up and down his back, trying to indicate he's only ribbing, but he realises partway through that it's going to come off as poaching and immediately goes back to his shoulders. 

Edgar grins at him, says, "don't get all nerves on me," because he's not stupid.

Thomas takes a breath.

"You started just as I left, sounds like."

"Why'd you le – right."

...Right.

Eight years make a mighty difference, turns out.

"I'm the butler there now, as it happens."

"Blimey, really?"

"Really."

Edgar looks about as awed as if he'd said he was the heir apparent, and Thomas supposes they'd been brought up in the same way — get in with a house, ideally a great one, play your cards right, stay 'til you die.

Or, in his own case, shirk the family business, muddle around a bit, and then do all of that with several detours, though that was hardly to do with his upbringing. (Or, everything to do with it, just not in the drilled into his head since the cradle fashion.)

"Must've seen a lot of grand people, huh," Edgar says, giddy again.

Thomas recognizes the glint in his eyes.

"Laid eyes on plenty of Lords in my time, I'll say that much," but he pulls the same move Webster did and swings out before elaborating.

Edgar laughs as he does so, recovers in seconds, and a there's a thrill down Thomas's spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Webster and Clarence eyeing them from across the room, the former of whom looks a little concerned, so he nods at them, smiling, hopes it can convey the _better than ever_ he can't say aloud.

"Awful nice sights, I'll bet."

"One hopes."

"Did a lot of hoping, I did; there ain't always much to see, is there, and all you ever get to do from a garden is look."

"Is that so, Edgar?"

"Come on, don't make me get vulgar – "

"Highest a duke, lowest a baron," Thomas tells him finally, because he's sweet and it'd be unkind not to indulge him in the fantasy.

It's true, besides.

"Well, that's every sort, then, innit."

"In more ways than one."

"What were the best?"

"The Duke." No question.

"Worst?"

"Also the Duke," if you consider things other than talent in the sack.

And, conveniently, the song begins to change, so he gives Edgar one last turn before they head off the floor.

Before he can even catch his breath, someone taps him on the shoulder and says, "would you care to go again?"

Edgar slaps his other shoulder and grins, and then he disappears.

Thomas turns.

"James Newbold, at your service."

"Thomas Barrow," he says.

"Well, Mr. Barrow, I daresay the tune'll do," says Newbold. He's got what is admittedly an irresistible smile, and Thomas nods.

"I think it will, yeah."

"You prefer to lead, I take it?"

Oh, Christ, there are so many _decisions_ involved here.

He repeats his words from earlier: "can't say I like it especially, now there's another option," exactly the same way, too, and Newbold claps his hands together and says, "novelty wins, I think."

The press of his hand between his shoulder blades is familiar, now, and Thomas takes his hand with more confidence than he had before.

They start up something like a tango.

"So pleased to see a new face around," says Newbold eventually. "And it's great fun to have someone who's not bored of the classics. I can never really get my feet to do all that newfangled switching about, you know."

Thing is, he doesn't. He's always picked this sort of thing up fairly quick — he's good at keeping time, and good at moving his feet, and all dance is is combining the two. 

"What, the Charleston?"

"Too jumpy for my taste."

"If you're not used to it," Thomas replies, and he tries not to sound too proud. Newbold's sweet, he thinks, and though he was confident enough to ask him he doesn't seem like the sort to make a habit of trying new things. "Fun once you get the hang of it, though, I promise."

It's true, in his opinion, and besides that, being old school isn't exactly an asset in a dance hall if you're any younger than sixty — _the classics_ aren't all that suited to jazz.

"Don't know about that, I'm rather unfashionable."

Sounds like his assessment was fair.

"Oh, that's all, is it?"

Newbold turns pink.

"And uncoordinated."

Except that he's doing just fine leading him in a rag.

Well, Thomas has never been one not to take a chance to show off.

"Anyone ever taught you properly?"

"Er, folks have tried."

"And these were competent folks, were they?"

"What, Mr. Barrow, can you do better?" 

He sounds like he's trying to tease, but Thomas just says, "all right, come on," and drags him away.

It's clear soon enough that his problem is impatience, not a lack of coordination.

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Newbold, that's all," and after he's broken it down for him — "don't try and turn your legs before you've got the pattern, it's only stepping front and back," he manages all right.

"Er, thanks," he says, once he's gotten it several times over, and though Thomas stiffens at the appreciative pat to his arm, he doesn't mind it.

Everyone's so friendly, tactile, and he understands as innately as the rest of them seem to — it's dangerous, bandying about getting too close to other men in day to day life, but whether they're after one another or not no one minds it, here. Best to get enough of it in at once as they can, he supposes.

And it's like a breath of fresh air, getting close to a man without him tensing up and holding his breath, even if it's only for half a second, which is how it's been with Andy since they met.

"Want to try it out?" he asks, and then he offers his hand, because it seems like the right thing to do.

"Oh, I suppose," and despite how noncommittal the words might sound he looks eager as anything.

After that, everything's a blur, because he's a novelty and it's like every man in the room wants to get in with him in one way or another, but there are a few standouts: there's Morgan and Hill, about twenty years apart in age (and, if looks are to be believed, in the sort of arrangement he'd spent most of his latter teen years pondering at night); Chapman, who has him lead and keeps commenting on his cheekbones; Evans, who lays his hand on his when he sits to catch his breath and draws his finger up his arm to his inner elbow and murmurs "another time, " after his stammered, "I've promised to – "; Wesley, whose Oxford education doesn't stop him from letting his hand fall lower on his back than it needs to be; and so on and so forth. He can hardly keep track of everyone, and he's not bad with names, either — it's literally his job, after all.

But there are also several John and George Smiths, and he realises at the third that he's not going to have a clue who's telling the truth and who isn't.

It reminds him again of how cautious he isn't being.

So for a bit he only surveys. Webster is well-liked, evidently, which does give him a sense of security if nothing else, but it's not until the number of men in the room is down by half that he decides he ought to trust his gut and pulls Clarence aside.

"Ask away."

He isn't bothering with the York drawl anymore, just posh and King's English; somehow, it puts Thomas at ease.

"When you said independent…"

"It's more generous a term than lonely, wouldn't you say?"

Lonely.

Well, that makes two of them, doesn't it.

"Why me, do you think?" he asks slowly, and the question gets him a smile.

They're seated on two adjacent wooden crates, knees drawn up; Clarence slings an arm around his shoulder.

"He must find you quite fetching," he says, hush-hush and into his ear, and Thomas's head is suddenly spinning.

"Well, that can't be the only reason, there's no shortage of good looking men around."

Clarence laughs at him.

"No," he agrees, "no, there isn't, but if it were me… you're a charming fellow, Thomas, and forgive me for saying it, but you rather wear your heart on your sleeve."

Oh, hell, does he? — and _charming_ isn't anything he's been called before, to his recollection, either — 

"Edgar told me you ogled."

"I didn't say I _ogled,_" he says, indignant.

Clarence gives him another look. This one says, _you have been ogling all night, and I can read between the lines, thank you._

Thomas huffs.

"And Christopher told me he was partial to it."

"I ask because I agreed to go back with him," Thomas says, confessional.

"Oh, my."

"What?"

"I don't think you've much to worry about, Thomas, you've clearly made quite the impression."

And that's about as much as he gets out of him before Edgar arrives, timely as ever, to kiss him senseless, and Thomas gives them their privacy.

Not that it's private, in a room like this.

The band slows down shortly after, and before he knows it he's back in Webster's arms.

Apparently it's going to be slow for the rest of the night, which won't be too long.

He makes it about a minute before he realises he's left out some important information.

"About… after this."

"Haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"No – no, only – "

He can't dance and think at the same time. 

Chris's hand falls lower on his back, and Thomas gets bold enough to move closer, himself, and… they just hold each other, rock back and forth.

"'S'all right if you have," he says.

Thomas shakes his head, which is a bad move when your chin is on someone else's shoulder, but Webster only laughs as their cheeks bump together.

It's contagious, but his own sounds anxious.

He cannot bloody ruin this.

"I want you," he says, and when he'd opened his mouth he'd intended to say, _I want to,_ but this is equally if not more true.

Chris presses a close-mouthed kiss to his neck, and though he's once again reminded that _this is not private,_ he can't say he minds, really.

"But I can't stay the night, or, or anything, I – I'm in service, have to be back at the house by morning."

"Just my luck," Webster says, but Thomas thinks he might be smiling, based on how his lips feel against his jaw.

"If it's a problem – "

"Not a problem."

His breath hitches as once more his hand moves lower along his back –

"Maybe you ought to take me back now, then," he says, willing his voice to keep even. He's got his feet underneath him. Men have wanted him before, even if not especially recently, and he's always known how to get them around his finger, and he can bring that in, here, just a little of it, because this isn't some risky power play so much as someone on his own level he'd like to seduce in return. "Make the most of the night, if you'll only have me for so long." Breathy, low in his ear.

It works.

They're off the floor in a heartbeat, say their farewells together, like a _couple_, and Thomas tries not to think about how there's a thrill down his spine and his heart's racing as they get back into their jackets and head out — there's a back exit, "for emergencies," Webster says, and Thomas isn't so stupid as to think he only means for things like fires.

They make it two blocks without speaking, until Thomas says, out of nervous energy more than anything else, "bet my feet'll be bruised tomorrow."

"Don't suppose I were too bad a partner?"

Welp.

"Oh, you were excellent," he rushes. "Just stepped on myself one too many times is all."

"Hardly noticed," says Webster, clearly joking.

"Yeah, right."

He's starting to feel nervous about this — _will he like me, will he want me, will he be good, will I,_ the emotional song and dance that comes before every night he's ever spent with another man, only now it's accompanied with _am I moving too fast_ and _is this really what I want_ and _oh God I want this more than I should because this is definitely too bloody fast_

Webster's sweet, though, and he bumps their shoulders together and says, not teasing so much as he just was, "they'll have to pack up soon, seems like, glad I got to meet you before it happens."

"— why?"

And then he raises his eyebrows at him like he's an idiot. Thomas can't be insulted by it, either, because he _is_, when it comes to this sort of thing, this whole thing he never knew existed, and he'd never imagined it could exist, or at least not outside of — of Paris, or Vienna, or somewhere else he's never been and can never hope to go to.

It's like he's been stuck in a room with no windows for his entire life and then someone suddenly thrust him out into the sun.

"Can't have things on for too long, don't want the peelers getting wind of anything — or did you mean why am I glad I met you?"

It's not that he'd forgotten so much that he wasn't thinking on it until a minute ago — looking back it was all surreptitious, some folks weren't using their own names, there was the door code, and whatnot, but at the time the illegality of everything mattered less than the fact that he was dancing with other men, that they could all be in various states of dress and undress and all over each other and kissing and talking and drinking and looking and no one in the room would bat an eye. Ordinary.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the pavement. 

"Overwhelming, innit," Webster says, soft this time.

"A little."

Understatement of the bloody year.

"But good, yeah?"

"Had the best night of my life."

He really, really has.

"Sets me high expectations, Barrow."

Some of the confidence comes back. "You'll meet them."

Webster lives in one room flat out by the carriageworks, where he's employed, and as soon as they're inside with the door latched he sets a calloused hand upon Thomas's neck and kisses him.

He kisses back, warm all over, and they get one another out of their jackets in seconds.

Then Webster tugs him over to the bed and sits him down, and he undresses the rest of the way and knows he's being watched as he does it, which is… unbearably arousing, really.

Once they're both nude and Webster has him pinned to the bed, Thomas manages to ask him himself.

"Why me?"

He's quick on the uptake.

"You kept givin' me looks, Barrow, and it's not every day I get looked at by a man handsome as you are, is it."

Thomas nods, his mouth suddenly watering, and Webster begins to look smug. "'Course, then you turned out to have a good head on your shoulders, too. Nothing about you not to like, so I figured I oughta go for it."

That he rather disagrees with, that he's all likeable, but it would kill the mood, so he doesn't mention it.

And it's amazing, feeling wanted.

Webster kneels around his hips and places his hands on his chest, slides them up and down along his ribs; he shudders.

"Can't say I mind that you did."

"And you won't regret going for it either, Barrow, not if I've got a say."

The look on his face is roguish, and Thomas doesn't even bother with not staring, because he's in his bed and the time for being shy is long over — or at least, he thinks it is, until Webster tongues at his lip during a kiss, moustache tickling his nose, and then breaks it off to say, "what'd you think, when you had your eyes on me?"

Nothing he should have been pondering in public. 

The question alone brings him from stirred to erect, which appears to be exactly what Webster hoped for: he moves to lie beside him and then reaches down to wrap his hand around him with no warning whatsoever.

"Bloody hell," Thomas gasps, and he rolls his hips without trying to.

When he tries to give it to him in return, though, Webster gently pushes him away. "All for you, love."

He will never get used to this, even if he were to have it every night.

"You sure – ?"

"'Course I'm sure — asked you a question, though, didn't I, Barrow?"

"That you did," he manages, and he takes a deep breath, tries to stay still, because it'd be both embarrassing and an awful disappointment if this ended early owing to him. "Thought you were handsome, yourself."

"Uh-huh."

"Thought about kissing you."

Webster begins to pass his hand up and down along his cock, and he makes an undignified squeaking sound at the sensation.

"All innocent like."

"Hardly."

And then he pulls himself together and remembers that he knows how to be good in bed and he can talk damn pretty if he likes, so he gives him a kiss and tells him in detail about just what, precisely, he'd been imagining Webster could do to him back in the pub — and, outside of his imagination and thoroughly in the real world, he gets all of it and more, too.

Best night of his life, indeed.

* * *

By the time he's back to Downton it's about two in the morning.

He's about to trudge up the stairs and collapse into bed when he realises there's lamplight coming from under the door of the butler's pantry.

There absolutely shouldn't be, at this hour, and owing to that his nerves get the better of him. Doing his best to keep his steps light, he makes his way over and finds the door is unlatched.

It takes only a little push to get it open, and then he finds that there's someone sitting in his chair.

He's so shocked by who it is that for about a minute all he can do is just stand there slackjawed.

"Someone had a late night," Ellis says. His brow is furrowed and his lips are set straight, disapproving.

"How in the bloody hell did you get in here –"

"Hush, Mr. Barrow, you'll wake the entire household."

Heart pounding, he closes the door and sets his back against it, tries to get himself together enough that he can deal with whatever's going on here. This may not be a place so intimate as, say, his bedroom, and it's not even been his domain for the past couple of days, but everything in here that isn't the Crawleys' is his, and he spends a good deal of time at that desk, and the room should have been bloody locked at the end of the night — Ellis has no right to be in here at all, let alone at two in the morning, let alone with that look on his face, let alone after abandoning him in York for the night. his being here makes Thomas more uncomfortable than he's ever been in his life.

— well, that's hyperbolic, but it is what it _feels_ like.

"How," he repeats, and he keeps his voice down because it's the smart thing to do, not because he was told to.

"Keep a skeleton key on me," says Ellis, in the same tone someone might say, _the sky is blue._ "How did you?"

"Er – "

"How did you make your way back, Mr. Barrow?"

If Ellis means to throw him off his guard, he's done it — but only for a moment, if Thomas can help it. He meets him in the eyes, headstrong. 

"There's this thing called the railway. You might have heard of it."

"Much more efficient than a horse and carriage, I'll admit."

With raised eyebrows and a tilt of the head.

It's insufferable.

"You were late," Thomas blurts, because it's looking like he's going to have to defend himself eventually and he may as well get a head start. Plus, he's had a good night, and he's feeling more generous than he has in years. Possibly ever. Under ordinary circumstances, he would not explain himself to someone who had blatantly invaded his territory, so to speak. 

These are not ordinary circumstances. 

He steels himself, tries to keep the uncertain, reedy note out of his voice. "Ran into an old friend, figured the choice was obvious."

"I'm sorry if I've led you to think I'm foolish enough to believe that."

Thomas puts his face into his hands, and he's _so close_ to just throwing him out, but something makes him not. 

The something is probably that Ellis makes him weak in the knees, even after resolving about a decade's worth of sexual frustration with someone he really, really likes, but given he's getting the sense that he's about to be threatened with blackmail or worse, this is really not a good time to have feelings. 

And, need he remind himself, he was in the bed of _someone he really, really likes_ not two hours ago.

"Can't deny you were late, can you," he mumbles into his hands, stalling, because he's either suddenly a bad liar (plausible, he's not felt like himself at all tonight) or Ellis is just really, really good at reading him, and… 

Ellis laughs. It's kind, not cruel.

This is a hallucination. 

Maybe this is _all_ a hallucination. Maybe he knocked his head when teaching George to bat a month ago and he's hallucinated everything, the letter from Buckingham Palace, Lady Mary firing him, the entourage, all of it. Maybe he's actually been in the village hospital this whole time —

"What was he like?"

He still feels like he's choking, and he can only manage one word, but it comes out surprisingly steady, like he's genuinely surprised and not terrified out of his mind: "Who?" 

Fear flashes across Ellis's face, just for an instant, and then he's suave and sure, shakes his head. But his voice is less confident than it was a moment ago. "She. She. Don't know what I'm saying, been a long day – how was the bird?" 

Thomas stares, dumbfounded. He'd expected a quip about the 'old friend', maybe a 'you know who', given his own lie, that'd make sense in context, and then in the back of his mind he was worried about an expletive accompanied with the word 'degenerate' or something, not… whatever airs are being put on, here. 

How someone goes about saving face when they screw up can be a dead giveaway. Seeing as Thomas wouldn't have realised there'd even been a screw up if he'd said literally anything else, seeing as he could have passed it off as a totally different question than the one it clearly is, Ellis is not going about it in a manner that does him any favours.

"There was a girl, surely –"

Because these are neither the words nor facial expression of a man who has ever done anything with a girl in his life.

Ellis is not in his office to blackmail him. Ellis is in his office because he's nosy. And queer. Queer and nosy. And _queer_, God, isn't he an _idiot — _

He doesn't even give a damn about how violated he felt a minute ago; all that's in him is relief, and joy, joy like he felt earlier in the evening when he walked into a room full of men in each other's arms.

"You bastard," he says, and he can't stop himself from laughing. "Christ, you are – you are _something_, Mr. Ellis," and he gathers his wits about him, shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up by the door.

Then he pulls his lighter and a box out of his pocket.

"Smoke with me?" 

Ellis must have been holding his breath, because he breathes out all at once in a huff and his shoulders drop. His answer is a slow nod, and then he stands; they trade places.

As they do, he takes the offered cigarette, and when Thomas makes to hand him the lighter, he only leans forward.

Right.

Okay.

He lights it for him, watches him suck in, and is extremely aware that Ellis has his eyes open and is watching him, too.

"You scared me half to death just now," he says, after he's had his first inhale. He's smiling, almost gentle, not quite as self-satisfied as he's seemed all along. It's an absolute contrast to how he looked when he walked in.

"_I_ scared _you? _Bold, from someone who snuck into my office at two in the goddamn morning –" and Thomas laughs again, ever unlike himself, because this is _unreal_. After everything that's happened he's confident, feels like he can be forward; he nudges Ellis with his elbow good-naturedly. 

Then he lights one for himself because the line between confidence and nerves is quickly getting thinner.

And Ellis is still watching him, even as he crosses the room and pulls up the spare chair.

"Almost screamed bloody murder," Thomas says, once he's relaxed a tad and Ellis is seated in front of him where he ought to be. Not much, but enough.

"Thank heavens you didn't."

"Thought this was gonna be blackmail – "

"No, Christ, no. But I can see how you would have – I feel horrid – this was hardly a sound decision, I'll admit – "

"What if I hadn't come back til morning?"

"I don't know – "

"What if Mr. Carson found you? Or Mr. Wilson?"

"I – I didn't think about what I was doing – "

"Can bloody well see that – "

Through the wall comes the sound of a bell, and it shuts them both up.

Then the creak of floorboards, footsteps in the corridor, the pitter-patter of feet up the stairs — of course Albert will have slept in the hall tonight, given the occasion, and Thomas releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding once he figures it out.

Still, it's a much needed reminder that they're not the only two men in the world.

When it's been silent outside for what must be several minutes longer, Thomas makes a fuss of moving the ashtray. "He was amazing, for the record," he murmurs, once he's turned in such a way that he's sure Ellis can't see his face.

He's not sure he'd've been able to say it, otherwise.

Ellis only hums, and when Thomas moves back to set the ashtray on the edge of the desk, convenient for both of them, he tries to look him in the eyes.

Then he settles back in his chair.

"Sorry for abandoning you."

But Ellis did abandon him first, so. He had good reason.

"Are you really?"

He shrugs. "I am now." Now that he knows.

"Well worth it, I imagine."

"You have no idea."

"Might you give me one, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas raises his eyebrows.

"Not – I didn't mean – "

"Oh, you didn't, did you?"

Ellis's blushing, but Thomas stares him down. And he wins, too, because Ellis only looks away and puts his cigarette back to his lips.

"I didn't," he says, more composed this time, and Thomas wonders if either of them are going to get through this conversation with anything remotely resembling casual eye contact. "But I do wish I'd seen to you first, if I'm honest."

"You were late," Thomas repeats. 

He does not say, _if you hadn't been._ Ellis isn't stupid; he can pick up on an implication.

The odd thing is, now that his interest is confirmed, he's not entirely sure where he stands, himself — it's dizzying having two men after him at all, let alone at the same time.

And he's already made a choice he's satisfied with.

They've got tentative plans to see each other again, too, next time he has time off, and he's not the sort of man to go back on his word, where these things are concerned. (At least, not anymore.)

"I was."

"Settles that, then," says Thomas airily.

Ellis doesn't press — not on that matter, at least.

"I would like to know," he says, rather intently.

Thomas ashes his cigarette and looks over at him, lips pursed.

"About my competition."

Bloody hell, he's forward.

Maybe that's just how things are, for men like them — he's certainly got more than one for an example, after tonight. Webster had asked him the same question.

While he tries to come up with something to say, Thomas does his best to look nonchalant, like he hasn't just had the best fuck of his life and is giddy as a girl over it.

"Took me out dancing and then back to his place."

"Dancing."

"It was all very hole and corner. In a warehouse, ten minutes' walk from the carriageworks."

"Right under my nose," says Ellis, but it's not lighthearted; he doesn't look unconcerned. "You're… quite the risk-taker, Mr. Barrow."

"No, I'm daft." He takes as long a drag as he can muster, then speaks and exhales at the same time. "Hadn't a clue what I was getting into 'til after I'd left."

At this, Ellis looks vaguely disapproving, but he seems content to drop the subject — he looks up at the ceiling, tilts his cigarette up and down between his thumb and pointer finger, and says, "was he handsome?" 

Thomas can't help but laugh. "What, do I look like I've got bad taste?"

"I'm sure you have excellent taste."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"See, if I were in your place, I'd be thinking I must be blind."

Whether he means it as a compliment or a boast, Ellis will never know, and the fact gives Thomas a good deal of satisfaction.

"I really am sorry," Ellis says slowly. "Ought've been more clear about what I wanted."

Thomas finds himself pitying him. "And where'd that've left you if you were wrong about me, I wonder."

"Pleading for forgiveness, I'm sure."

"Not too far off from where you ended up anyway, then."

It makes him laugh, but then he's stone faced.

"Consequences rather different, though, aren't they," Ellis murmurs, dark. "Lose my job and I'll never find another one, and then there's – the rest of it, you know well as I."

Doesn't he just.

Except his own scandals would never have made the papers, and maybe that wouldn't be the case for Ellis.

"And now I've only lost a chance."

"Might have others in the future, Mr. Ellis, if you play your cards right," Thomas says, casual. He can be forward, too. "Won a friend for certain, though, if you want one."

"Been looking for one of those, as well."

"Finally found him, then, haven't you," Thomas says, and Ellis smiles.


End file.
